


Sensations

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, MFMM Year of Quotes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 04:55:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13427244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: Three days before Jack Robinson was set to arrive in London, Phryne found herself perusing the wide selection of pyjamas available at Harrod's.





	Sensations

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be January's PFF in addition to the trope fic, inspired by [this prompt](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1590/i-like-my-body-when-it-is-with-your/), and then it wasn't completed in time. And then I didn't particularly like it, so I wasn't going to post it at all. Especially when I saw all the amazing quote fics that have been posted so far. And THEN I decided that posting it in its imperfect state was, like, an effort to reject stifling perfectionism and not at ALL my desire not to miss a month, even though I said from the outset that I was only going to do the months that inspired me this year because I have a couple of longfics that will take up most of my writing energy... (Yes, I'm an idiot; no, that's not going to change. I'm just going to embrace it.)

Three days before Jack Robinson was set to arrive in London, Phryne found herself perusing the wide selection of pyjamas available at Harrod's. She told herself it was simply a matter of practicality—a large portion of her wardrobe was in Melbourne—and as she was shopping alone, there was nobody to argue the point. To call it nerves would be an overstatement, but there was a restlessness that was appeased by the browsing of luscious fabrics, delicately embroidered silks and faux-fur trims and lace-edged lingerie a welcome contemplation. Each was considered and discarded in time, none quite evoking the desired sensation—they were too simple or too fussy, too modest or too overt. It was utterly ridiculous, and Phryne found herself wishing there was time for more than department store fashion.

With a few (usually exhausted) exceptions, the routine of leaving her sated partner to don pyjamas and a robe was in some ways as important as the sex itself. The soft touch of silk, the authority it conveyed... it did not signify that the encounter was over, but it was a coming back to herself, a reminder that however close she had been moments before, however deep he'd been, however high release had taken her, she was the same woman she'd been.

Her browsing fingers struck on a claret-coloured nightgown, and she extracted it for closer examination. It would fall mid-thigh, and while the cut was simple—thin straps and a straight neckline—there was a subtle swirling pattern on the silk itself that gave an intriguing depth.

"There is a robe that matches," said a shop assistant who had silently appeared. "I could fetch it, if you'd like?"

"Yes, please," Phryne said.

The young woman ducked her head and retreated behind the counter, searching the wall of shelves until she found what she sought. As soon as it was unfolded, floor length and luscious, Phryne knew she would buy them both; in an instant she could see her London hotel room, the city lights streaming through the window as she tightened the sash and looked back onto the bed, where a very naked, very happy Jack was sleeping, felt the rush of affectionate delight even in her imaginings.

"I'll take it," Phryne said. "Thank you."

The shop assistant nodded again, taking the gown from Phryne's hands and efficiently boxing both items. Phryne paid and arranged for delivery of the items, along with her other purchases of the day, and took her leave. There was still three days until Jack arrived. Well, 68 hours and—she glanced at her watch—12 minutes until docking.

Not that she was counting.

———

The reunion went as reunions were inclined to do—indeterminate waiting, a crush of people, the long stretch of the minutes between seeing him on the deck of the HMS Olympia and seeing him standing before her. Eyes that swept over the other person, as if to confirm that they were really there; a smile that was impossible to hide; a salutation that was far too casual for the circumstances. The undeniable pull between two bodies, resisted until it wasn't.

"Hotel?" she asked when they parted, the dual flickers of desire burning in her gut and hope in her chest.

"Hotel."

He was confident, settled. Certain. Which was a good thing, because doubts at this late stage might very well kill her. Not the abstinence—sex was on offer in all corners of London—but the rest of it. The promise, the desire, of more; to build more, become more, not because she was lacking as she was but simply because this was a peak she had not yet climbed. Had never desired to scale, until a quiet friendship had sparked that flame. She took his hand and led him towards the waiting taxi.

"What are you thinking?" he asked her, later, when they had reached her suite; his valise was open as he unpacked, his clothes taking residence beside hers in a moment so domestic that she found herself trying to remember if this had ever happened before. Not to the best of her recollection; she moved from the doorway into the room, picking up the pyjamas laying atop the pile. They were stone grey and new, and she turned her head to hide her smile.

"You're a detective, Jack. Guess."

"The terrible dreariness of London fog?"

"I've been here a week; the problem has been lamented and discarded already."

"Lunch, then?"

"I can order some, if you're hungry, but no."

"My terrible sartorial choices?"

"Hmm?"

He chuckled. "My pyjamas, Phryne. You're still holding them."

She glanced down.

"Oh, I am," she said, shaking her head to clear her contemplations and heading towards the open drawers. "Guess again."

Tucking the pyjamas next to her own nightgown, Phryne imagined another scene, of Jack in his pyjamas and Phryne in hers, of the picture they would make entwined, grey and red so pleasing together; she shut the drawer quietly, gliding back to where Jack stood, back to her. She slipped her arms around his waist, pressing a kiss against his shoulder blade. Even through his suit jacket she could feel the movement of his muscles, and she realised how very rarely she had touched him—an occasional hand or arm offered to be gentlemanly, accidental brushes as they walked alongside, a dance. Two kisses and several missed opportunities.

Dear god, she was going to enjoy exploring him. Thoroughly. Repeatedly.

She began unbuttoning his waistcoat from behind, feeling the new heat from his skin through his shirt and tugged the silk free of his trousers; imagined how he would look when he turned around, dishevelled and longing and _hungry_ , eyes dark with lust. Sliding her hands up his chest again, she shucked the jacket and waistcoat off, leaving her with the wide expanse of his back highlighted by the burgundy braces he wore.

She groaned, scraping her nails down the silk to feel him shudder, muscles beneath fingers; kissed the crook of his neck, breathing deeply, the scent captured there something she had only caught hints of before; pushed the braces from his shoulders, her hands caressing his arms, silk-covered biceps and forearms becoming calloused hands and long fingers. Lacing her fingers through his, she turned him around to face her.

“Hello, Jack,” she murmured. 

“Miss Fisher.”

“Fancy meeting you here.”

“I hope I’m not intruding,” he teased, a tremor in his voice the only hint of his nerves.

She tugged him down as she leaned up, meeting in the middle to kiss him; as she pulled away she realised that it had been some time since she’d kissed like that, ‘sweet’ not being a regular description of her encounters—sensual, seductive, fond, yes, but very rarely sweet. She liked it.

Kissing him again, she continued to undress him—tie loosened, buttons undone, shirt pushed from his shoulders; tugging at his vest, breaking apart just long enough to pull it over his head and toss it aside before renewing her kisses; her hand roaming across the newly exposed skin as she learnt his body by touch; the hitch in his breath as her hands reached his waistband, making the muscles of his stomach move beneath her palms. 

His hands were on her hips, his thumb gently stroking the bone there but otherwise still. 

“You can touch me, Jack,” she laughed, nibbling her way down his neck. 

One hand moved from her hip to the small of her back, his fingers skittering up her spine as he searched for the buttons that would undo her dress; the intimate familiarity made her knees weak and she sagged against his body. Clothes were shed, and when they were both naked she pushed him onto the bed and straddled him. He bit his bottom lip, fighting for self-control, and she rolled her hips against his to make him groan, laughing when she succeeded. 

She allowed her eyes to rove over the expanse of his skin, admiring his body; muscles and sinew and bone, the dark line of hair that travelled from his chest to the place where she sat, the contrast in their bodies, her pale hands on his sun-darkened chest as she rose up to take him inside, both of them breathing sharply at the sensation, and began to move.

Later, when their desire has been temporarily appeased and her curiosity infinitely piqued, she lays beside him. Even as they both drift towards sleep there are touches, movement, discoveries, each one new. Each one wanted. 

The pyjamas stay in the drawer.


End file.
